


A Knack for Healing

by pikestaff



Series: What If This Storm Ends (Renegades Universe) [1]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: A relationship with "someone" is implied but it can be with whomever you ship him with, Backstory, Brief animal injury/death mention, But also Adult Anders, Gen, Kid Anders, Let the Feathermage Be Happy 2k17, Magic, Multi-year story, based off a tumblr post, headcanons, kinda sad but happy ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-21
Updated: 2017-01-21
Packaged: 2018-09-18 21:05:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,594
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9402854
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pikestaff/pseuds/pikestaff
Summary: Anders' magic manifested itself "late" compared to others.  Or did it?  Perhaps he was working his magic in a much more subtle form all along.This is based ona tumblr postby fauxfires and therealmnemo/Mnemosynea.





	

His mother first noticed it when the little blond boy was about six or seven.

He had always been talkative and outgoing for his age, fond of making friends, but as he grew older it became apparent that he had been gifted with some sort of magnetism. People enjoyed being around him. Not just the other children, but adults, too. And they always seemed to leave him… happier.

She mentioned this to her husband one day. “Our son has a gift,” she said. She was making bread, and could see her child from the window.

“Does he?” Her husband was lacing his boots.

“He’s skilled with people.” She wanted to say he was too good, that it was a talent, that he had something she couldn’t quite pin down, but she didn’t know how to put it into words.

Her husband smiled. “He got it from you, love.”

 _But there’s more_ , the woman thought.

 

There _was_ more, because about a year later, the boy was crying and distraught because one of the barn kittens had gotten into a fight with a rat and the kitten had not come out of it in good condition. His mother did her best to console him; told him that these things happened, that this was the way things went sometimes. Gently, she told him that the kitten wouldn’t last the night.

“Can I hold her? Overnight?” The boy’s face was tear-stained.

“Of course, dear,” said his mother.

And he went to his room, the kitten tucked gently in his arms, and his mother’s heart ached for him because she knew what would happen before dawn.

But then the kitten survived.

Her son was smiling as he played with it the next morning, and although the kitten hadn’t quite made a full recovery, it was certainly well on its way to one.

The woman was flabbergasted. She had no explanation. She’d been around animals all her life, and she knew enough to know that the kitten should not have survived. She tried to tell this to her husband, later, but he hadn’t seen the aftermath of the fight with the rat and couldn’t know that their son had done the impossible. He was proud, though. “He’ll make a fine farmer someday, with the way he cares for the animals,” he said.

But the woman began to have other ideas.

She got sick, once, a few months later. And every time her son was in the room her symptoms lessened.

A few months after that, she noticed that their aging dog, with his graying fur and rickety joints, would act more playful, more energetic, anytime he was near her son.

It was when the boy was about ten years old that her husband started taking him out to work chores on the farm with him. He was old enough to learn, he said. And she noticed that almost every morning her husband would wake up and complain about his knees, but inevitably the complaints would disappear after a day of working with their child.

She didn’t mention this to her husband, though. Because by this point she had a growing suspicion and it was a suspicion that her husband, who was devout and read the Chant of Light every day, didn’t need to know about. Instead, she decided she would talk to the boy on her own when he grew a little older. For now, though, he wasn’t causing any harm, and so long as that was the case, she could wait. The Maker had given her child a gift. And the gift wasn’t drawing any negative attention to itself. Perhaps, she thought, it would stay that way.

It didn’t.

 

It all happened one night when the barn went up in a blaze, and the boy was on his knees, terrified and crying, staring at his hands as though they were some nightmare made manifest, and his father was there, yelling at him, having moved from shock to outright anger. The woman dashed to him, begging him to stop, and he whirled on her. “Do you know what he is?” he nearly screamed. His Ander accent came out when he raised his voice.

“He is a _gift_ ,” she said.

“He is a _curse_ ,” he replied. “A curse on this household.”

“Does a curse keep a dog alive years past its prime?” she shot back. “Does a curse heal your knees every day?” Her husband’s eyes widened. Realization dawned. He knew. _He knew._ “You knew,” she said. “ _You knew._ You’ve known all along. You know he has this talent.”

But his eyes hardened again. “I’m getting the templars,” he said, and he turned to stride away.

“You would hand our only child over to the templars?” the woman yelled after him.

And the man didn’t respond.

She rushed over to her son; he was crying and desperately trying to apologize. “I’m sorry,” he sobbed. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to…”

“I know,” she said, and she wiped away his tears.

“I know magic is bad, I just…”

“Look at me,” she said, and her boy looked up at her with eyes that gleamed gold in the light of the barn fire. “The Maker gave you a gift. Do not forget that. Ever.”

“But…”

“No buts.” She took his face in her hands and kissed his forehead.

The boy sniffed and wiped his nose with the back of a hand. “What am I going to do?”

The woman didn’t know. The Chantry was very near where they lived. Her husband would be back soon with the templars. “Go into the house,” she said finally, “And get some things, and run.” It was a last ditch effort. The templars would have dogs and horses with them. But it was better than standing and waiting.

And the boy nodded, sensing the urgency in his mother’s voice, and dashed back towards the house.

The templars caught him in a field not far away, because of course they did, and they slapped him in chains and dragged him away, and his mother cried. He had a pillow she’d made for him, at least.

 

Their old dog died a week later.

And her husband’s knee pain came back. She didn’t say a word to him when he complained to her.

 

The months grew into years, and the years grew into decades. And the woman thought of her child, sometimes. She wondered if she’d ever see him again. She wondered if he was at least happy.

 

The Fifth Blight ravaged Ferelden like a hurricane, swift and deadly and leaving destruction in its wake before disappearing as quick as it had come, but it took her husband with it. The woman was alone, and she sold the farm and moved into a small house in a nearby village. She had a cat. It was one of the descendants of the farm cat that her son had saved, long ago.

 

The years went on. The woman’s hair had long been gray and her face lined with age when it happened. She was haggling with a merchant in the busy town, making a purchase, and that’s when she felt something. Something she hadn’t felt in years. It felt like warm sunlight, washing over her and easing the weariness she felt in her bones.

She turned; a little ways behind her there was a tall man wearing a hooded cloak, and there was another cloaked individual beside him. The man was running his hand softly along his partner’s back, working his subtle magic, and the woman watched, fascinated. Then the two cloaked figures turned to leave.

“Wait!” The woman reached out with a hand, but she didn’t need to, because at the sound of her voice the man immediately stopped. He turned, slowly, and she saw his face under the hood. His eyes were golden.

She stepped forward but tripped over something and began to fall, and the man nearly leaped forward and caught her, and he held her closely as waves of tangible healing magic washed over her. She closed her eyes and breathed that panacea in, and she didn’t notice the tears on her cheeks until he was wiping them away.

She opened her eyes, then, and looked up at her son. He was smiling. She smiled back at him. “You’re happy,” she said.

“Yes,” Anders replied. He glanced over at his partner, who was also smiling. “I suppose I am,” he said.

“But you’re not in a Circle,” said his mother, confused. “I did hear that they were changing things up. That something happened up north, in the Free Marches. But…”

Anders laughed softly. “We did change things up a bit,” he said. “But a long time ago someone told me that I had a gift. And… I wanted everyone else who is like me to know that too.”

The old woman beamed with pride, and she held on to her son for a few more moments before he straightened. “I’m afraid we can’t stay,” he said. “We have somewhere to be tonight.”

“Answer me one thing,” said the woman, and her smile was playful. “Do you still have that pillow?”

“I don’t sleep without it,” said Anders.

 

They parted ways and the woman went back home. She sat down in a chair and her cat jumped into her lap. She stroked his fur and smiled to herself. Of course her son was off fixing things that were broken and healing things that needed to be mended.

Because of course he was.

He’d always had a knack for healing.

**Author's Note:**

> Come find me on tumblr - http://pikestaff.tumblr.com


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